(F&F5) A Mouthful of Sand
by Harper64
Summary: Set over six months in 1942, during 'Invasion' and 'Bad Blood'. Foyle is kept busy, leaving Frances to do some 'investigations' on her own.
1. Chapter 1

Less fluff, more plot this time. Set during the six months of 1942 covering 'Invasion' and 'Bad Blood'.

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**For future reference:** In England and Wales the birth, marriage and death records are in the public domain and always have been. Local register offices keep a copy of the certificates of events registered in their own immediate registration area. Staff will search these for a fee, and researchers may be allowed direct access. The information in these is sent to the General Record Office (at Somerset House in the 1940s) where they are indexed alphabetically every quarter (3 months). The indexes show names and area only. They can be searched by anyone, and a certificate can be ordered for a fee. Nowadays the indexes are on-line but in the 1940s a visit to Somerset House, or local office if known, would have been necessary.

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oooooOOOOOooooo

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**A Mouthful of Sand**

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_It is said that the first thing William the First (the Conqueror) did when landing near Hastings in 1066, was to eat a mouthful of English sand._

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Chapter One

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The room in the old school was dominated by the large tables pushed together and laden with food. Samantha Stewart, here in her capacity as driver for Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle, walked the whole length marvelling at the amount and variety of food, not knowing where to begin with such riches. Her boss, having just given a talk to the US engineers based here, was chatting to Captain John Kieffer.

"Two boys, six and nine. Here's my wife, Ellie," said Kieffer, producing a wallet with a photograph of his family and showing it to Foyle.

"You must miss them," Foyle looked at the picture of the woman and boys.

"Oh yeah," sighed Kieffer, "I sure do. How about you? You have kids?"

Foyle was always reluctant to mix his personal and professional life, but John Kieffer seemed to be a genuinely nice chap. He was a fly fisherman, too, a pastime close to Foyle's heart.

"I, um, yes, I have a son," he answered, "He's in the RAF, and, um, a daughter."

"Uh oh, " Kieffer smiled, "don't let her get mixed up with any of these boys, will ya? He nodded his head towards the young men in uniform.

"Um, don't think that'll be a problem," replied Foyle, a deadpan expression on his face," she's only eight weeks old."

"Christopher!" exclaimed Kieffer, "well there's a cause for celebration. Fill up?" He indicated Foyle's drink.

"I will. Thank you,"

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Foyle and Sam left shortly afterwards, Sam complaining that she didn't get anything to eat. Foyle, having arranged a fishing trip with Kieffer, was thinking about the way that Sam had been chatting to one of the boys, Farnetti. He knew that Sam and his own son, Andrew, were finding it difficult to continue their relationship while Andrew was away in Debden, and hoped that Sam would not be swayed by the self-assured young American who seemed intent on making her acquaintance.

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Sam dropped him off at his home. He went in quietly, knowing that Frances, his wife of eighteen months, would not be happy if he woke young Lucy. He crept into the living room, lit only by firelight, and stopped, smiling at the sight of his wife and child both fast asleep, Frances on the sofa and Lucy in her basket on the floor beside her. His heart swelled with pride and love for them both; the woman he'd never expected to meet and the daughter he never thought he'd have.

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Not having had anything to eat at the US base himself, he quietly went into the small kitchen and made a sandwich, returned to the living room and sat in his favourite chair. The house seemed very quiet with just the three of them. Christopher smiled to himself as he remembered the days after Lucy's arrival. Despite having had a remarkably easy time of the birth, Fran had been exhausted by feeding Lucy whilst still doing everything else that needed doing. When Fran had been expecting she had read all the literature on birth and babycare that she could. Most of it she had dismissed as 'faddy' and had her own very firm views based on common sense and love. One of her views was that when a baby cried to be fed it should be fed – hence the exhaustion. She had not complained but he could see just how much this was taking out of her. He had helped as much around the house as he could but circumstances at work meant that he was busier than ever.

He had telephoned Fran's sister-in-law, Mags, who had jumped at the chance to come to lend a hand, along with her own six-month-old son, Chris. Named for himself, after he and Frances had hosted the family the previous year, little Christopher was always called Chris. A trained nurse, younger than Fran, and with four children of her own, Mags had been a huge support; she and Chris had left just a couple of days ago, hence the peace and quiet. Lucy had settled into a much less demanding routine now and, although Christopher appreciated that there were sure to be trying times ahead, he was enjoying having them to himself.

He was lost in his thoughts when a gentle thudding sound brought him out of his reverie. Lucy had woken up and was signalling this by thumping her legs on the mattress. He got up and bent over the basket, lifted her out and held her against his shoulder.

"Hello, poppet," he whispered, not wanting to wake Fran, "have you had a good sleep?"

He sat down and laid her on his lap. She looked up at him and smiled; the rest of the world disappeared. Fran had told him that Lucy had begun to smile but he'd not seen it himself until now. His daughter was smiling at him and he felt as if his heart would burst.

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The following week Frances decided it was time to resume her research. Wrapping Lucy up warm in her pram she set off down the hill to the Town Hall. She should, she reckoned, get a couple of hours to work before Lucy needed feeding.

The Register Office was situated at the back of the building, its own entrance opening onto a back street, unlike the imposing front entrance with its huge arched doorway and stained glass windows. The staff here knew Frances well; she'd been a regular visitor for over a year. There was a lot of 'oohing and aahing' over Lucy, but at last Frances was able to continue her search of the registers. She had an idea of what she was looking for but what she actually found made her excited. She looked at notes she'd made earlier, re-checked some information and went home, her mind full of ideas.

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"Don't think I'll bother going tonight," Christopher said as they ate their meal on Friday evening, Lucy asleep in her basket.

"To the dance? I thought you'd told Captain Kieffer that you'd be there?" asked Fran.

"I did but what am I going to do if I go? I certainly won't be dancing," he raised his eyebrows at her and smiled.

"I should think not!" she smiled back, remembering the first time they'd danced together, "but you should go, if only for the sake of Anglo-American relations."

"I suppose so," he said, standing and collecting the dirty plates, "but I'd much rather be here." He nuzzled her neck as he passed her chair.

"Oohh,"she said, standing up and following him, "What time d'you have to be there, my love?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

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The dance was in full swing when Foyle arrived at the school serving as an American base. Although he didn't dance, he did quite enjoy watching the American lads teaching the local girls to jitterbug. He was, however, concerned to see Sam dance numerous times with the lad, Farnetti. Was she having second thoughts about her relationship with Andrew? he wondered. She'd only recently asked if he'd had news of his son. Perhaps with no correspondence between them she was getting tired of waiting for him. She was, after all, a beautiful young woman. Deciding, reluctantly, that it was really none of his business he said his goodbyes. He had his coat on ready to leave when Milner found him.

"You'd better come back in, sir," he said, "A woman's body has been found."

They examined the scene and Foyle went to telephone Frances to tell her he'd be late home.

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The following few days DCS Foyle was busy investigating the murder of the young woman found at the dance. His sergeant, Milner, also had a case of a death in a house fire which was looking more and more suspicious. Frances was oblivious to all this – she had an investigation of her own.

Before she had married, Frances Cartwright, as she had been then, had been a senior researcher at a firm of solicitors in London. The company specialised in wills and inheritance law. Frances spent her time tracking down the records that would prove who was legally entitled to inherit when a will was not left, or there was a problem, such as a beneficiary dying before the will was enacted. Most of the time this could be done using the indexes to the registers of Births, Marriages and Deaths in Somerset House; sometimes, however it involved checking local church records which is why she had been in Hastings when she and DCS Christopher Foyle had met in a hotel. They had fallen in love and married just a few weeks later.

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She had resigned from her job when they'd married, but found that she missed it terribly. However, to do the job effectively she would have had to live in London, a thing that she was out of the question. Then, the previous year, she had been telephoned by her old boss, Mr Neale.

"Frances," he had said, "would you consider coming back to work? We really need your expertise."

"I'm very sorry, Mr Neale," Frances had answered, "I really would love to help, but I need to be here now. I can't explain why just yet, but I can't come back to London."

"What about part-time?" Mr Neale had pleaded, "Would you consider, perhaps, a three-day week? We've taken on new staff but without anyone to guide them they're in a mess."

"Oh dear," she'd been sympathetic, "are they really struggling?"

"Well, last week one of them assured me he'd found a death we needed. Turned out he had the right name but hadn't checked the age. We wasted hours on the wrong information. Please, Frances, the other seniors can't get their own work done because they spend so much time checking the new staff's research."

"Why have you got so many new staff anyway?" Frances had asked.

Mr Neale's voice had trembled as he'd told her of former colleagues who had died in the Blitz or been bombed out and moved away. "What if we provide accommodation for you?" he implored her, "We can put you up in a hotel for a couple of nights a week."

Frances and Christopher had been having a few problems at that time, and the offer was tempting. However, she had turned his offer down, not wanting to tell him that she suspected she was expecting a child. She had already had one disappointment and didn't want to risk anything happening to this pregnancy.

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But something Mr Neale had said had ticked away in the back of her mind; 'He had the right name but hadn't checked the age'. These new recruits had the basics but hadn't yet got the experience; was there a way she could help with that? She had years of experience both in London and with local records in Derby before that; was there a way of sharing it? An idea had begun to form. Frances had spent a day in London discussing this idea with Mr Neale and the other partners.

It had been decided that she would put together detailed guides covering all aspects of the needed research which would build into a 'Training Manual' for the new staff, and once a month or so she would spend a couple of days in the office evaluating the use of these and perhaps doing some more practical work. It had been the ideal solution and she had thrown herself into the work. Her husband had been very relieved, even though he had worried when she had spent a few odd days in London whilst she was pregnant. Of course, since Lucy's birth she had not visited London, but as soon as Lucy was able to be left, Frances intended to continue with the arrangement.

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Before Christmas she had been looking in the local registers to find an example of two people with the same name, dying in the same place. It was her intention to write about the importance of checking a wide time period and then establishing which one was the correct person to research. She had found a wonderful example and had bought the two death certificates.

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The first certificate read;

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_12__th__ February 1936, at 39 South Street Hastings, William Kingsbury, male, 25 years, labourer, _

_cause of death: severe asthma, certified by Dr Graham Anderson MD informant: Thomas Kingsbury, brother, of 39 South Street, _

_registered 13__th__ February 1936_

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The second:

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_28__th__ November 1940, at 6 Battle Terrace Hastings William Kingsbury, male, 29 years, clerk, _

_cause of death: tuberculosis of respiratory system, certified by Dr George Staples MD, informant: Geraldine Kingsbury, wife, of 6 Battle Terrace, registered 30__th__ November 1940_

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_'__Two men of the same name, approximately the same age'_ she'd thought, _'but an inexperienced researcher may find one and not realise that another even exists. An excellent example of searching a wide enough time period just in case; and then having to find out which is the correct one for the research.'_

At the time she'd begun to go through the methods one would use to establish which was the correct person, but had not made much headway. She'd found the burial of the second William in a local church but nothing at all for the first. Then a mixture of bad weather and her advancing pregnancy had stopped any further investigation.

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She had abandoned that search and looked for something a little more straightforward to write about now that she was so much busier with the baby. But on her last visit to the register office, the day of the Anglo-American dance, she'd been looking at birth records and one name had caught her eye. It was for James William Kingsbury Masters, the illegitimate child of Brenda Masters of Green Road, born July 1936. A child with middle names that matched two dead men, although only one would have been dead at the time of the child's birth. Was this a coincidence? Or was there a link between one of the men and this child? Over the years Frances had learned to trust her 'detective instincts' where genealogy was concerned and was convinced there was a mystery to be solved.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

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"Any plans today, love?" asked Christopher over breakfast.

"I thought I might go to the Hastings Observer offices," answered Frances, "There's something I want to check."

"You seem to be spending a lot of time on this work," Christopher observed, "Sure you can manage it? Don't want you wearing yourself out again."

"No, I won't," she said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, "I want to get this one. I have a real puzzle to crack. Lucy sleeps most of the time; it's no problem."

Foyle studied her face, the way she spoke, her movements round the room. Fran was more animated than he had seen her in months. He loved her calm motherly behaviour with Lucy, but this eager researcher, this was the woman he'd fallen in love with. He found himself wishing that Sam would call to say the car had a puncture; that she'd be delayed for a while. As it was, he startled Fran with a lingering kiss that held a promise for that evening.

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At the newspaper office Frances requested the papers from their archive for the weeks of the men's deaths and the following two weeks. She sat in a corner of the busy office and looked at them carefully. The 1936 papers were full of a story about a missing man, Fred Johnson, but there was no story of a death of a William Kingsbury, and, strangely, nothing in the 'Birth, Marriages and Deaths' announcements on the back page.

The 1940 paper for the week following that William's death had several entries from various family members, including one from his wife announcing the date of the funeral.

_'__How strange,'_ thought Fran_, 'the 1936 William had a brother who was the informant. Why did he not put an announcement in the paper?'_

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On her way home Frances thought she'd make a detour and walk past 39 South Street. If it proved to be a very poor area that may have been the reason there was no announcement. With so many street names removed, she had to ask the way several times before she found South Street; it was not a poor area at all. She walked the length of it, checking the doors which had numbers attached, to find number 39. What she found was that the street ended at number 37. Confused, she checked again. There was no number 39 and indeed no space where number 39 could ever have been. Perhaps there had been rebuilding since 1936? She asked a woman who was scrubbing her front step. No; the street was as it had been since it was built. Number 39 did not exist.

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Christopher was quiet that evening as they sat together. Fran wondered what had happened in the murder investigation on the American base that had him thinking so much; she was taken aback somewhat when he suddenly spoke.

"Sam went AWOL this morning," he told her.

"Sam? That's unlike her. Where was she?" asked Fran.

"Having tea with that Farnetti lad," Christopher answered, "in the middle of the day. I had to wait for her to come back before I could get to the base."

"Oh my goodness," Fran teased, "She kept _you_ waiting. And you a _Detective Chief Superintendent_!"

"I'm being serious here, Fran," he answered, "I was a bit short with her and she told me, um, about Andrew."

Fran looked up from cooing at Lucy who was in her arms, "What about Andrew?"

"He's split up with her," Christopher said, disapprovingly, "and by letter, of all things. I'd have expected better from him. Sam seemed really upset."

"Oh, that's such a shame," Fran sighed, "I thought they were perfect for each other. You never can tell, can you?"

"I could," Christopher said, taking Lucy and lying her in her basket, "I knew you were perfect for me."

He pulled her up, held her close, kissed her ear, her neck. Fran could hear his breathing, fast and shallow. She could feel the tension in the air around them; he wanted her. Just knowing that made her aroused; she still found him as irresistible as when they first met.

"I was perfect for you? And when did you decide that?" whispered Fran, her hands loosening his shirt from his waistband.

"When you told me how much you enjoyed your job. You were so enthusiastic, so excited when you told me about finding what you were looking for," he answered softly, unbuttoning her blouse. "You said 'It's like being a detective,' d'you remember?"

"And then I asked you what your job was and you said, 'I _am_ a detective'," Fran smiled at the memory. "That was mean of you!"

"It was the look on your face when I said it," Christopher breathed. "It charmed me. I didn't realise it then, but looking back, that's when I knew you were perfect for me." He removed the blouse completely.

"In front of Lucy?" queried Fran.

"Why not?" he whispered, unfastening his trousers, "She can't see over her basket. And anyway, she knows that her Dad is as besotted with her Mum, as he is with her."

"Better bolt the front door then," suggested Fran as she made herself comfortable on the sofa.

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Over the following few weeks Frances stole what time she could from her domestic duties to peruse the puzzle of William Kingsbury 1 and 2. William the Second, as she took to calling him, was easy. She found his birth entry, his marriage to Geraldine Rice and his name on the electoral rolls.

William the First, however, was proving to be far more elusive. She could find no matching birth in Hastings, so had called in a favour and asked a colleague from the London office to try the Somerset House indexes.

"Send one or two of the new staff," she'd said, "it'll be good experience. And make sure they do at least a five year period search."

But the search had revealed no matching birth. One of the new staff who'd helped with the search had telephoned her with the news.

"We started in 1911 and did five years each side," he'd stated proudly, "there was nothing. The man doesn't exist."

"Unless he was born in Scotland, Ireland or overseas," Frances had said to him. "Remember, never make assumptions. The entry may have been missed when the index was compiled, there may be a transcription error and he's listed as William Ringsbury. There are all kinds of reasons why you couldn't find him."

The young lad had sounded sheepish when she said this, but she knew that he'd never make that assumption again. It was a useful training exercise. However, despite all the reasons she'd given she knew that it was strange that William couldn't be found. She thought about it as she walked to and from the shops; as she hung out the washing; as she gave Lucy her night-time feeds. She thought about what the lad had said on the telephone, 'He doesn't exist…'

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She re-visited the newspaper office again with quite a different task. The 1936 papers told her all about Fred Johnson, aged 28, who'd gone missing. He'd lived at home, 17 Brightling Road with his parents, and had been unemployed. He had left the house on the morning of 11th February 1936 to look for work; several employers had seen him during the day asking about jobs. He had left one factory at about four o'clock and had not been seen since. Police had searched the local area but without success. An acquaintance from Johnson's local pub had told police that Johnson had talked about going to London to look for work, but his family knew nothing about this.

Was all this connected in some way? Frances was determined to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

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That evening Frances asked her husband if he remembered the case.

"I have a vague recollection of it," Christopher said, "I remember we had searchers out on the fields behind the house. There was nothing suspicious, as I recall. Why are you interested?"

"Oh, just something for the training," she answered, and changed the subject.

Frances waited for a dry morning, hung out her washing, put Lucy in the pram and made her way to Brightling Road, the home of the missing Fred Johnson. The most recent electoral roll had told her that the Johnsons had lived at number 17 before the war. Frances hoped they were still there. She knocked on the door; an elderly woman answered.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you," Frances smiled, "Are you Mrs Johnson?"

"I am. What can I do for you, dear?"

"I, um, I wondered if I could talk to you about your son, Fred," said Frances, wondering if she'd have the door slammed in her face, "Would you mind?"

To her surprise the woman invited her in. She parked the pram, Lucy sleeping soundly, under the window and went inside.

"Thank you so much, Mrs Johnson," she said, "I've been reading the reports of Fred's disappearance. He is still missing, I take it?"

"Yes, never seen him since that day," Mrs Johnson said sadly, picking up a photograph that had pride of place on the mantelpiece and handing it to Frances, "That's him, my Fred. A few years before he went missing, that was taken."

Frances looked at the young man in the photograph. He was standing in the garden with his sleeves rolled up, hand shading his face from the sun.

"A good-looking young man," she said, smiling at Mrs Johnson, "what a head of hair."

"Ooh, he hated it when he was at school; kids used to call him carrot-top," his mother said, "but as he grew up it wasn't so ginger; it went more of a sandy colour."

"And you told the police that he had no reason to leave?" Fran asked.

"No reason at all," Mrs Johnson said, "Every reason to stay, he'd got a girl, you see, they wanted to get married, but with work being so difficult to find, well, they couldn't afford to. But he was crazy about her; he'd never have left her."

"How sad," said Frances, "What was her name?"

"Brenda," his mother said, "Brenda Masters. She lived up South Street somewhere. Mind you, she soon found somebody else after our Fred disappeared. I saw her not more than a year later, pushing a pram along the front."

Frances noted the name and street – it looked like her hunch about a connection may be correct. Brenda's baby was named after one William Kingsbury, either the one who'd died in South Street, or the one who was apparently happily married and lived elsewhere.

"Well, thank you very much for speaking to me, Mrs Johnson," said Frances, standing up, "I'm sorry if I've dredged up painful memories."

"It's been nice talking about him," the woman replied, "His dad was so upset he won't even mention him."

Frances said her goodbyes and left.

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Frances laughed as she put her key in the door of 31 Steep Lane. She'd been thinking so much on the way home that she'd hardly noticed the walk; she was getting as bad as DCS Foyle she thought!

At the earliest opportunity she looked at her notes. She was right; James W K Masters, son of Brenda Masters, was born five months after William 1st 's death.

_'__Perhaps,'_ she thought, _'Fred found out she was expecting William's baby. Did he kill William in a fit of jealousy, and then disappear, in case he was found out? That would account for his disappearance.' _

Had she discovered a murder, gone undetected for years? But William had died of an asthma attack. And it didn't account for the lack of records for him. Plus Fred's mum had seemed really nice; could she have raised a murderer? Perhaps, she thought, she was just being fanciful.

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Her next visit to the Town Hall yielded a marriage for Brenda Masters of South Street to Raymond Winterton, a milkman of Church Lane, Hastings, in March 1937. His age would probably mean he'd been called up, but she wondered if Brenda was there with her son. Perhaps she could get chatting to Brenda and find out something.

On a walk along Church Lane, Frances noticed a school at the end of the road. Little James William Kingsbury Masters, probably known as Winterton now, would be six years old; probably he was at that school. Frances had been a researcher for years and asked many questions of many people, but she'd never done what she was about to do – pretend to be something she was not. She asked to see the Head Mistress and pretended that her family would be moving to Hastings in the near future.

"My son, Danny, is six now, so I'm looking at the schools, to see what they're like," she lied to the Headmistress. "It will help us decide which area to live in."

The Head had taken her into the classroom where the infants were busy working. Frances had strolled round looking at the children practising their writing and identified young James by the name on his book. She would probably have recognised him anyway; he was the image of his father, right down to the ginger hair. So why on earth had she named him after someone else?

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Between her housework, shopping, cooking and looking after Lucy, Frances was finding it difficult to follow-up on her puzzle. It was already June and as five-month-old Lucy spent more time awake, Frances found herself more and more fascinated with her development and spent far longer than she'd have thought playing with her. She managed to continue her work for the training manual, concentrating on easier subjects than the one which really fascinated her – the mystery of the two Williams and Fred. She also had a chance to practice her sewing skills.

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Frances had been in the haberdasher's one day, and had been served by Doreen, the shop assistant. A quiet blonde woman in her early thirties, Doreen had always been friendly with her, and loved to see Lucy.

"Mrs Foyle," Doreen had said, "do you still do sewing work for other people now you've got the baby?"

"Of course," Frances had answered, "I can get things done when she's asleep. And she still sleeps quite a bit. Why? Do you want something altered?"

Doreen had blushed. "I need a dress making," she'd said, "a wedding dress."

Frances had congratulated her and listened as Doreen had explained about Sid, a man from her church who'd been injured in Africa and been discharged from the service.

"We just seemed to hit it off," she'd said shyly, "I was so happy when he proposed. I can't afford a dress, but I can afford the material. Would you help me make a dress, Mrs Foyle? Please?"

"On one condition," Frances had answered, "you must call me Frances!"

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They had worked together on the dress, mostly in Frances' sewing room on Doreen's days off. They had chatted about all kinds of things as they worked and by the end of June they had a simple but beautiful dress and a firm friendship. The friendship was the thing Frances valued most; she knew lots of people in Hastings now, but Doreen was her first real friend. Doreen married the next month and Frances, Christopher and Lucy were all invited.

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**Author's note:** Reading but not reviewing? Why? Don't like this? - review and tell me why. Not enough canon, too complex for just entertainment? I don't know... No feedback, no improvement!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**.**

Frances continued to be busy, but the puzzle continued to niggle at her like an itch that can't be scratched. Why was there no record of William the 1st before his death? Why was the address wrong? Where was the missing Fred? Could the two things be connected? Why was Brenda's child named after someone else?

_'__I think it's about time I discussed this with Christopher,_' she thought, _'He may have some ideas on the matter. I'll ask him tonight.'_

That evening, however, Christopher was in a somewhat irritated mood.

"Sergeant Brooke was up a ladder today, removing half the light bulbs in the station," he told her, "God knows what he's doing with them."

"Selling them on the black market?" joked Fran.

"It's all well and good this time of year, but how are we expected to do our job in the dark come winter?"

"It's not like you to let such a small thing annoy you," Fran said, going to stand behind his chair and rubbing his neck and shoulders, "You're all tense. What else is going on?"

"Lord, you know me too well," Christopher replied, holding her hands and pulling her round to sit on his lap, "It's Milner. He's requested we get mixed up in a murder case in Hythe because an old friend of his has asked for help. It's her brother; he's been arrested for murder." He was absently rubbing her arm as he spoke, "And Sam; she's got something on her mind and isn't saying what."

"Oh, poor love," Fran taunted him, "how can I take your mind off your problems?" She leaned in towards him.

"Mmm, sure I can think of something," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

A cry came from upstairs. They halted, listening. The crying continued, getting louder.

"Not my day at all, is it?" said Christopher, as Fran left the room.

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Brenda Masters once lived in South Street, she knew Did anyone named Masters still live there? Because of the war the most recent electoral rolls were several years out of date, but Frances managed to find a Norman Masters at 35 South Street. Brenda's father perhaps? Another day's work and she knew that Norman was Brenda's brother. She was sure there was something going on; she really needed to speak to Christopher!

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Christopher, however, was still not in a receptive mood. He told her at great length about DCS Fielding from Hythe and how he had objected to himself and Milner interfering in the case. Although not sharing the details, she knew he suspected that the case was not as clear cut as Fielding thought. This, combined with a teething child, was not conducive to relaxing evenings. Now he was worried because his driver, Sam, was not well. She'd gone home instead of going out with her American boyfriend, Joe.

"He walked with me as I came home," Christopher said, "he obviously had something on his mind as well. Eventually he admitted that he'd asked her to marry him."

"Really?" Frances had been surprised. Sam, she knew, was not the type to have her head turned by an American GI. "Has she accepted?"

"Not yet, she's hedging a bit apparently. I'm wondering if he wanted me to intervene on his behalf."

"Well, at least you know what's been on her mind, don't you?" asked Frances, wondering if she should ask him about her mystery and deciding not to.

"Possibly," he replied, "and I'll have to suffer Brooke's driving!"

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Frances stood outside number 35 South Street on a sunny August afternoon, and looked at the houses. Not all had numbers, including 35, but some displayed them clearly. A 7 and a 9 could be mixed up, maybe? But she knew that number 37 was lived in by a family named Fletcher. The missing house was a mystery, but what concerned her most was the fact that the death had been notified by 'Thomas Kingsbury, brother' and Frances knew for sure that no Thomas Kingsbury had lived in Hastings, or if he had he had left no trace of himself anywhere.

As she was turning to return home the door of number 35 opened and a man, who looked to be in his late forties, came out carrying a newspaper. He was short, dark-haired and had a caliper on his leg, the kind worn by polio victims. He stared at Frances.

"You lost, missus?" he asked roughly, "Looking for summat?"

"I was looking for number 39 South Street," said Frances, "But I can see I must have the wrong address."

The man approached her. "No such number," he said, "who're you looking for?"

He came closer and Frances began to wonder if she'd done the right thing coming here. She could think of no answer that sounded convincing, so she started to push the pram back down the road.

"It doesn't matter," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt," It's not important."

But he followed her, walking right next to her; too close.

"Who are you, then?" he asked her, "I've not seen you round here before."

She quickened her step, but he kept up with her limping rapidly. The street was empty of people, but she knew that the road that crossed this one at the bottom was far busier.

"Go on, tell me," he said, "Who are you and who're you looking for? Who told you there was a number 39?" His voice was getting angrier at her silence.

"I've told you, it doesn't matter," Fran's voice trembled slightly, "I must have got it wrong." Her hands were gripping the pram handle tightly. Oh, God, why had she come here?


	6. Chapter 6

Before we start this chapter a plea to 'Guests': I love getting your reviews, but I hate not being able to thank you or discuss what you've said. You can register on the site without having to write anything, remain completely anonymous, and we can message privately. Just think about it, eh?

**Chapter Six**

.

"What's your name, eh?" asked Frances' pursuer, grabbing at her arm.

"Leave me alone," she shouted, wrenching her arm from his grasp and beginning to run.

Two women turned into the street at the corner just ahead. Fran ignored the man at her side and ran on, the pram wheels bumping over the rough surface. She dashed past the women and turned into the main road.

"You alright, dear?" called one of the women, turning to watch Frances' flight past them.

But Frances was going as fast as she could onto the main road, through the pedestrians, not daring to look behind her. To her enormous relief she saw Doreen coming towards her. She stopped and said hello, looked back down the road. There was no sign of the man. After a few quick words, she made her way home as fast as possible.

.

.

Fran looked at her husband across the dinner table. Should she tell him what had happened? She had calmed down now, felt much better, and a little embarrassed. The man hadn't threatened her as such; just spoken to her and touched her. He didn't know who she was or where she lived. She'd often been approached by men when she worked in London and always carried a bag of cayenne pepper, just in case. She'd only ever used it once. Perhaps she should start to carry it again? What would Christopher say if she told him what had happened? He'd think her foolish and in his present mood would probably tell her so. She decided not to say anything about her encounter in South Street..

"Have you heard how Sam is?" she asked instead, "What's wrong with her?"

"She said it was a summer cold," Christopher replied, "But one of the men went round today to get the car and said she looked dreadful."

"I'll go and see her tomorrow," Fran told him, "take her some soup or something."

"That would be much appreciated, love," he said warmly. Frances knew her husband had a soft spot where Sam was concerned. Despite now having a daughter of his own, he still treated Sam as such, which is why he was still worrying about this Farnetti chap and his proposal, no doubt.

.

.

Sam answered the door and Frances was shocked to see just how poorly she looked. Her voice was croaky and she was pale and sweaty. Frances made her sit down while she heated up the soup she had made that morning. She sat Lucy on the floor and gave her daughter her knitted cat to play with.

"It's very kind of you, Mrs Foyle," Sam croaked, "I'm sure I'll be better soon."

"You will if you look after yourself properly," Fran said, "when did you last have something to eat?"

"I can't remember, really," Sam answered shakily.

"I'll come back tomorrow and bring you something more substantial," Fran told her, "My husband hates being driven by Brookie, so you'd better get well soon."

"I'm sure I will be, thank you," said Sam, picking up Lucy and giving her a hug, "and then I'll be able to play with you, Lucy-Lu."

As she handed Lucy back, Frances noticed Sam had what looked like scratches on her skin. Warning her not to let them get infected, Frances took her leave.

.

.

On her way home Frances stopped at the library to look for the address of Dr Graham Anderson. If he'd certified the death of William 1st, perhaps he would remember the house number. Could he have been called to a different house in South Street and not be aware of the number? How would that be possible? Frances' mind went back to the night when her own father had died of a heart attack. A neighbour had run to telephone for a doctor when he'd collapsed, while Frances had stayed with her father. It was dark and Frances had left the light on in the front room and the front door open, while she was in the kitchen with her dad. The doctor had come straight in. Would he have checked the house number or just presumed it was the correct house because of the light and open door?

Frances found the address she needed; it was the other side of town from South Street. Why on earth would a doctor attend a patient on the other side of town? She so needed to talk to Christopher!

.

.

But when Christopher arrived home he found a half-prepared meal, a screaming child and a harassed looking wife.

"She's been like this for hours," Fran told him as she held a struggling Lucy in her arms. "She doesn't want feeding, she doesn't want cuddling, and she's been sick. I don't know what's the matter with her."

Christopher took the struggling child from her, "Shall I have her or shall I cook, love?

"Oh, if you could cook, that would be helpful. Thank you so much," she kissed him on the cheek, took Lucy back and carried her upstairs.

.

.

Christopher stood at the sink and drained the potatoes. He could hear Lucy still screaming upstairs. He remembered bouts like this with Andrew; not knowing what was wrong, trying anything and everything to stop the crying. Lucy was probably teething, he surmised, but he wished she'd just stop crying; he'd got enough on his plate as it was. The case was proving to be far from a simple murder; it seemed to be tied up with missing animals, a scientist with German notes… and Sam was still ill. He'd have to let her parents know, if she was no better soon; her father had left her in his care, even though she was an adult, and he took his responsibilities very seriously.

Between his preoccupations with the case, Sam's illness, Fran's research and Lucy's demands, there seemed to be no time for Fran and himself to spend any time together. He missed her, he realised; he missed her playful flirting with him, even when it meant him leaving for work feeling somewhat frustrated; he missed listening to her singing to Lucy; her warmth by his side ion the sofa in the evenings. When had they last made love? It seemed like ages ago. Yes, he missed her dreadfully.

Lucy did stop crying, briefly, and slept for a couple of hours, allowing Frances to tell him of her visit to Sam and for them both to eat an almost cold meal and clear up afterwards. Frances had put aside some of their meal to take to Sam the next day, but wondered if she'd be able to make it to Sam's with Lucy in such a state.. .

.

.

She did manage, the next morning to get to Sam's lodgings. Having cried for most of the night, Lucy was exhausted, and the motion of the pram had lulled her to sleep. Much to Frances' consternation, Sam was not there. She had knocked and called, peered through the windows, wondering if Sam was in bed, when a neighbour had told her that she'd seen Sam leaving. Encouraged that she must be feeling better, Frances had returned home. It was late afternoon when the telephone rang.

"Frances," came Christopher's voice, "is Lucy any better?"

"Not really," Frances answered, "she's got a temperature and she's still very fretful."

"Fran, love, I want you to remember," he sounded serious, "when you went to see Sam, where was Lucy? Did she stay in the pram?"

"No, she sat on the floor, playing," Fran answered.

"She was just on the floor? Sam didn't touch her?"

"Why, Christopher?" Fran's heart was in her mouth, "Why are you asking?"

"Just answer the question," his voice was stern, "did Sam touch her?"

Frances tried to picture the scene, "Yes, she picked her up to say goodbye. Just for a second or two, no more. Why? What is it?" She could hear him breathing heavily down the telephone.

"Fran, love, listen very carefully. I want you to give Lucy a bath, wash her really thoroughly, don't miss a spot. Then dress her and wait there. Someone will pick you up."

"What?" Frances was confused, "Why? Pick us up to go where?"

"Just do as I say, please, love. I'll explain everything when I see you. Please, trust me," he hung up.

Frances did as he had asked, her mind racing as to why. Lucy usually loved splashing in the bath and objected to being washed so quickly and removed. She was still crying when Sergeant Brooke arrived and drove them at considerable speed to the hospital. Christopher and a nurse were waiting just inside. The nurse took Lucy from her and began to walk away.

"Where are you taking her?" asked Fran, "I'm coming too." She started after the nurse.

"No, love," Christopher said, holding her arm, "let her go. She needs to be examined."

"Why? She's not ill; she's just in pain with her teeth. She'll be scared. Let me go!" she tried to pull away but Christopher's grip was firm. "Let me go, you're hurting me!"

Frances knew, deep down, that her husband would never hurt her, she trusted him implicitly. But he did not let her go, instead led her to a hard bench along the wall, sat her down and explained.

"Sam is very ill," he told her, "she has something called anthrax. She's here and they've got the stuff to treat her, but…" his voice broke.

Fran stared at him, unable to take in all that was being said.

"She has lesions, like boils, on her skin. This disease can be passed on by skin contact," he was saying, "They need to check Lucy, just in case…" He stopped and looked at her. His face was a picture of despair and Frances, with a sinking feeling, realised just how serious this could be.

They sat close together, holding hands, Frances too shocked and Christopher too worried to say any more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

.

Foyle hesitated to tell Frances more than the minimum. Having seen Sam, knew just how ill she was, and he was petrified at the thought of losing either his daughter or Sam. He had been told that it was touch and go; that one person had already died of this disease. He'd discovered the treatment, but if it was too late for Sam… he closed his eyes. It did not bear thinking about.

The doctor came down the corridor towards them and Foyle stood, his body shielding Fran, studying the doctor's face to prepare himself. Although unsmiling, the doctor did not appear unduly concerned. Foyle became aware that he was holding his breath and exhaled as the doctor spoke, Fran now at his side.

"We've examined your daughter, thoroughly," the doctor told them, "Even though Miss Stewart did touch her, she could only have been infected through a cut or broken skin, which she doesn't have. Her temperature and pain are almost certainly because of her teething. We've given her some mild painkillers to help."

He handed a packet to Frances. "Mix one teaspoonful of this with water. She can have it three times a day. I'll help with the pain and," he looked at their tired, strained faces, "it'll help her sleep. You two look as if you could do with a good night's rest."

The nurse returned a calmer, although still crying Lucy and Frances waited while Foyle went to look in on Sam.

.

.

Back home they ate and put Frances took Lucy to bed. At seven months old Lucy was almost completely weaned, although Frances still fed her herself at night, to help her settle when she was fretful. She was sitting in the armchair in Lucy's room, her daughter at her breast and her eyes closed. This was the most relaxing and peaceful thing she had ever known and she was thankful that she had been able to experience it. In fact, tonight she was thankful for so many things; the fact that Lucy was not ill; that Sam seemed to be over the worst; that she had a husband who loved her and whom she loved more than she could ever say. Nothing mattered more than that; not even the damned war.

She opened her eyes to see her beloved Christopher standing in the doorway watching her, his face softened by the dim light, his eyes tender. Lucy was asleep now, her mouth still puckered onto Frances' nipple. Frances eased her off and stood to put her in the cot. She tucked the sheet and blankets over her daughter and turned to find Christopher standing right behind her. She leaned into him as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I wish I could protect the two of you from everything," he said in a soft voice, "illness, hurt, sadness, grief…"

"I know, my love," she whispered, leading him out of the room, "but if you did, how would we know when we were happy? And tonight I am happy, well, more contented really. I have you and I have Lucy; what more do I need?"

She felt his change of mood in his body, the smallest movement of his hips against hers; saw the slightest trace of a smile on his lips.

"Come on, love" he said "come to bed."

She raised her eyebrows. It was still early.

"Doctor's orders," he reminded her smiling, taking her hand and leading her into their bedroom, "now if you just remove your clothing, Mrs Foyle, I'm ready to examine you… "

.

.

It was a much happier, more relaxed, DCS Foyle who got into the car with Sergeant Brooke the next morning. He and Frances had enjoyed a lot more than a good night's sleep, both the previous night and this morning. He had woken to find a cup of tea on his bedside table and his wife, her only attire an old pyjama top of his, sitting on the side of the bed.

"Did Lucy sleep right through?" he'd asked.

"Nearly," Fran had replied, "She was up at half five, she's had her breakfast and just gone back to sleep. She's got a lot of catching up to do in that department."

She'd lifted the covers and snuggled in beside him, "And we've got catching up to do in another department."

She'd kissed him then, her lips soft against his, said "Now Dr Foyle, you did a very thorough examination of me last night. Now it's time for Nurse Foyle to examine you."

Another kiss, more sensual, her mouth tasting of toothpaste; her breathing rapid. His body had responded immediately; his hand had reached down to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

"Ooh," she'd teased him, "the patient has a nasty swelling here. Whatever shall we do? Shall I kiss it better?"

She'd looked into his eyes challengingly before ducking under the covers and doing just that, her tongue flicking against him, making him groan with delight. She'd kissed his navel, traced the fine line of hair downward, and back up to his stomach. He couldn't help himself; he'd raised his hips toward her mouth, seeking that exquisite sensation of her mouth on his…

"You alright Mr Foyle, sir?" asked Brooke, "You seem a bit fidgety."

"Quite alright, thank you, Sergeant," he replied, "Just thinking about, um, medical matters."

.

.

The day that had started so well got better as the case was solved, exonerating Milner's friend and winding up the investigation. DCS Fielding had taken the news well and expressed his intention of retiring. It only remained for Sam to recover completely and Foyle's world would be back to normal. He went to the hospital and, as he walked down the corridor towards the ward, saw Farnetti sitting outside the door, looking dejected.

"I have to get back to the base, Mr Foyle," he told him.

"Then go," he said, "I'll stay with Sam."

In the ward he found Sam, eyes closed, but already looking a little better. He turned to walk away when he heard her voice. Assuring her that she was on the mend, he was surprised when she began to speak about her work. Their short conversation ended with her telling him that she would not be marrying Farnetti, but coming back to work as soon as possible. He smiled at her fondly, pleased that she appeared so much happier having made her decision, and said nothing about his daughter. There had been no harm done and Sam needed her energies to recover, not worry about what may have been. For Foyle it was the perfect end to a very good day.

.

.

Her husband's latest case had been solved; Frances, however, was still wrestling with hers. The following day, not wishing to go out but to let Lucy sleep as much as possible, she made herself a cup of tea and wrote a list of what she knew.

Two men with identical names died and were registered within five years of each other.

William 2nd had been proved to have lived and worked in Hastings, she had verified his place of burial. Forget him!

William 1st - his birth could not be traced and there were no records pertaining to him or his brother in Hastings. The address on the death certificate did not exist. The attending doctor was from another part of town. She could find no burial for him in Hastings.

At the same time as the death of William 1st, another man had disappeared – Fred Johnson. What did she know about him? He had no reason to leave; he intended to marry; his girlfriend, Brenda, had had his baby later that year, although, strangely, she had named the baby after William. She had since married but was also originally from the same street as William 1st; her brother still lived there, two doors away from the fictional address. He was probably the man who had scared her with his questions; he'd certainly come out of Master's house.

What did all this mean? She was sure there was a connection and she had a germ of an idea about what may have happened. Where was a detective when you needed one?

Lucy woke up and Fran made them both lunch. Washing Lucy's face from her boiled egg, Fran made a very welcome discovery – Lucy's tooth was through.

_'__Thank goodness for that,' _she thought,_ 'Hopefully she'll be happier now. Until the next one!'_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**.**

DCS Foyle was very late home, but after hearing that he'd been at the hospital with a much happier Sam, Frances forgave him. As they were clearing up after eating, she washing, him drying as usual, she began to explain her puzzle to him. He listened as she went through what she'd found, then asked to see her 'list of facts'. They sat side by side at the table as she went through them.

"Agree that it's strange you can't find William or Thomas anywhere in the town, but they may have just have moved here," he said, "which may also account for the burial being elsewhere. His brother may have taken the body back to where they came from."

_'__Drat,'_ thought Fran, _'he's picking holes in my theory already. No wonder he's so good at his job.'_

"Ah, but what about the missing house?" she tackled him.

"Mm, how do you know it's missing?" he asked. She explained how she'd walked up the street.

"Could be a clerical error," he mused.

"And the doctor could have been fooled," she explained her theory of a light and an open door, telling him about her dad.

"One big problem there, love - blackout."

_'__Foiled again,'_ she thought and laughed at the appropriate expression.

He raised his eyebrows not knowing why she was laughing, "Someone could have been waiting in the street, though; waved his car down as he approached. And it is strange that he wasn't the nearest doctor, especially if they were new to the town."

He moved onto Brenda Masters. "You say she had a child not long after he died. But was the baby Fred's or William's? The name implies it was William's; it's evidence that he did live there."

Frances wasn't so sure, but there was no way she was going to tell him about her visit to the school; he'd have had a fit!

"And her brother lives near the false address?" he asked.

"Just next door but one," she clarified, "What do you make of it, love? D'you think there's a connection of some kind?"

"Certainly do, Sergeant Foyle," he winked at her, "What do _you_ think?"

_Really_? He was asking _her_? DCS Foyle was asking _her_?

"I, um, have a possible theory, sir," she responded in mock seriousness, "I am of the opinion that there was no such person as William 1st, sorry, William Kingsbury, aged 35 in 1936. I believe that Fred Johnson was killed by Brenda Master's brother, probably because he'd got Brenda into trouble. A doctor, who didn't know Fred, was called to certify the death, told that he'd had an asthma attack and told the wrong address. The death was reported as William Kingsbury, by someone claiming to be the fictitious William's brother. Once a death certificate was obtained the body could be legally buried and no-one would be any the wiser. And I looked at the baby's birth certificate; Brenda didn't register it herself, her brother did. I believe that_ he_ added those middle names for exactly he reason you just said – to provide evidence of William's existence. Sir!"

"Good theory, Sergeant," he smiled, "Still some discrepancies, though. How was the victim killed? Death certificate said 'asthma' so he couldn't have been shot, battered to death or anything like that. He had to be killed in a way that left no visible trace."

"Oh, oh, poison! Or suffocation!" Frances was getting excited now.

"A decent doctor would see the signs, love. When someone's suffocated the tiny blood vessels in the eyes tend to burst. It's quite obvious. And some poison leave traces."

_"__He knows all kind of things I never thought of,_' Fran was impressed. She knew he had a sharp mind, but she'd really never thought about range of knowledge he'd have.

"Perhaps the doctor was in on it," she suggested. "But why? Masters would have to have a hold over him in some way, wouldn't he?"

"Now you're thinking like a detective," he smiled, "a_ real_ detective. But even if the doctor was involved for whatever reason, what about the undertakers? They deal with bodies every day. They'd spot something if there was anything suspicious."

"So Masters finds a way of killing Fred so that it looks like asthma," Fran really wanted to be right, to show him that her theory would work. "The doctor's in on it and the undertakers don't notice anything. It could be done couldn't it?"

"Who informed the registrar? And we still have the problem of why."

She could see him getting interested as he thought out loud, "Why risk being found out giving a false address when you could just dump the body?"

"Masters probably pretended to be the brother. Shame it's such a long time ago, he may have been remembered by the Registry staff," Frances stopped, remembering the man with the caliper. They'd certainly have remembered him.

She pictured him in her mind. What if that was Norman Masters? He was quite small; he wouldn't be able to pick up a dead body. And he certainly wouldn't be able to drive with that leg. She looked at Christopher who was studying her face.

_'__Reading me like a suspect,_' she thought.

"What if," she started hesitantly, "What if Masters wasn't able to move a body? You know, too small, not strong enough, injured…"

"Then if he had a hold over the doctor, why not get the doctor to dump the body? He'd have a car."

_'__Drat! He's done it again_,' she thought.

"Christopher, how do you ever solve a case like this? There are so many things to consider, it's impossible!" She was full of admiration for his ability to think through every possible scenario.

"Well, of course, I'd have possible suspects giving me all kind of clues," he said, "It's surprising how many people give themselves away in conversation. But I will be checking up on the doctor; he must be in on it. I'll be talking to Brenda and her brother..."

"Ooh, he's a nasty piece of work," said Fran, the words out of her mouth before she thought about it.

"How d'you know that?" he pounced on her comment.

"I, um, imagine," she tried to cover her tracks.

"Really?" he raised his eyebrows at her. "And have you worked out the hold over the doctor?"

"No," she admitted, "I have no idea what that could be. I don't know"

Christopher stood up. "You don't know, Sergeant Foyle?" he said in his 'work voice', "I think you need further instruction on this." He leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Come upstairs and I'll give you a lesson."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

.

"I've been thinking," Christopher said the next morning at breakfast.

"What you're best at, love," answered Fran, quietly adding, "well, one of the things."

He smiled sheepishly. The previous night they had played one of their 'games' as they'd made love. He had told her she was a very fast learner; she had returned the compliment saying he was a very good teacher. He'd told her he'd give her A+; she'd said the lesson had been well delivered. They had traded similar educational comments, each vying to find another. He had won, as usual, as he always did when they played this silly game.

"Seriously, Fran, you say you couldn't find a burial for the William you think may be Fred?"

"Yes," she answered, "which is strange, if my theory is correct. Why go to all that trouble to get a legal death certificate and not bury him here? I wonder where he is?"

"Want a clue?" he asked, and when she nodded said, "You keep thinking about the records, understandably. All well and good, but now you need to forget them and think about _people_. Then you can find out where he's buried. That's another thing I'll be doing today"

He left for work, leaving her to ponder the problem.

.

.

That day Foyle talked to Brenda Winterton and Fred Thomson's mother. Brenda's brother was brought in for questioning, as was Dr Anderson. By the end of the day he was able to arrest Norman Masters for the murder of Fred Thomson, and Dr Anderson for aiding and abetting a murder. Milner was impressed by the speed of an enquiry that he knew nothing about until that day. All of the loose ends had been tied up, so why, thought Milner, was his boss not looking happy? In fact he looked extremely annoyed, but was not saying why.

.

.

DCS Foyle was still furious when he arrived home. He sat at the kitchen table and listened silently while an enthusiastic Frances shared her ideas. Having told her that her theory had proved correct and the case was tied up, she had asked him not to tell her everything but to let her guess. She told him what she'd thought about during the day.

"I have an idea about finding out where he's buried," she said, "you find the undertakers that dealt with the funeral and ask them. There can't be that many undertakers in Hastings. Yes?"

"Yes."

"And the doctor, the thing he used to persuade him to make out the false declaration? I was thinking about Brenda. If she knew her brother would be so angry, she may have considered getting rid of the baby. Perhaps she found a doctor who would help with that. But then he refused, or she changed her mind… but if her brother found out that the doctor had performed illegal operations he could have used that knowledge to make him help. Am I close?"

"Yes."

"And if Brenda was scared of her brother she wouldn't have objected to him adding those names to the birth certificate, would she?" Frances concluded.

She looked at her husband expectantly, only to find that he was almost glaring at her. Surely he should be pleased that she's managed to work it all out, even if it had taken her a while. Perhaps he was unhappy that she hadn't taken her suspicions to him right at the beginning?

"You're not being very encouraging, love," she said, "come on, tell me, am I right?"

"The last thing I want to do is encourage you any more, Frances," he said and she felt a shiver go down her spine. He had never spoken to her so… coldly. What had she done? She looked at him; saw that he was holding back real anger, his foot tapping, his fists clenching and opening.

He stood up and grabbed her shoulders roughly.

"Don't you ever, ever put yourself in such danger again," he said icily, "Never, do you hear?"

She thought he was going to shake her; her legs went weak, her mouth as dry as sand.

"You met him, didn't you?" he said, "Norman Masters? You know who I mean? The murderer?"

She couldn't speak. How on earth did he know? Norman Masters didn't know who _she_ was. Even if he'd said he'd spoken to a woman with a pram, how would he know it was her?

"Do you hear me, Frances?" he said harshly, his fingers still gripping her shoulders painfully, his blue eyes like steel, "Don't you realise what could have happened? He'd murdered a man... his own sister was petrified of him."

Frances choked back a sob, remembering the way she had felt when Masters had followed her. She'd been alarmed but not afraid for her life. She was more alarmed by her husband at the moment. She looked up at him.

"Don't you know yet how much you mean to me?" he whispered furiously, "Don't you know how much I love you, how much I…? I've only ever really loved two women in my life; I lost one and I'm damned if I'll lose another."

He was usually so calm, so self-controlled that she couldn't believe the depth of feeling that was emanating from him.

"Christopher, please, stop," she tried to calm him, "you're frightening me."

"_I'm_ frightening _you_? How do you think I felt? I was damn well terrified when I realised. Dear God, Fran, what if he'd done something to you?"

He pulled her towards him, crushing her against him as he held her tight; put his hand round the back of her neck and drew her face close to his. She thought he was going to speak again, but he kissed her roughly, passionately; with more emotion than she had ever known. His other hand was round her back, his body was pressing her into the table, his arousal hard on her belly. His hands moved to her waist, lifted her onto the edge of the table; she held onto him to stop herself falling back. His lips were on hers again, hard, demanding. One hand was up her skirt now, yanking the silk of her knickers to one side. The other was unbuttoning his flies, not waiting even to unfasten his waistband. Then he was inside her, coarse fabric rubbing against her legs, the table edge hard against the back of her thighs. His breath was loud in her ear as he gasped into her hair, she was aware of the table banging against the wall with the force of his trusts, the cups rattling on their saucers. There was no time to think; she was caught up in his desperation, his need, her body responding despite herself. Before she realised it she was throbbing hard and tightly around him, guttural cries escaping her as she felt the pulses travelling up her spine and spreading to every part of her body. She felt the hot shudders of his release, the slackening of his body, the draining of his fear as he held her close, his anger gone.

It seemed he would never let her go. The table edge was hurting her now, but still he stood, arms wrapped around her, face in her hair, his body trembling. After what seemed like an age, he recovered himself, withdrew from her and adjusted his clothing. Stepping back he lifted her onto her feet, took both her hands in his and raised them to kiss each finger in turn.

"It's my fault," he said softly, "I know I don't say it often enough. I love you, Fran, I love you with all that I am."

"I know, my pet," she answered, "You don't have to say it. I know."

"I should say it, I should tell you every single day, so you know how very much you mean to me."

He was no longer shaking but she saw the tears threatening to spill from his blue eyes.

"Please Fran, don't think that, because I make light of our lovemaking, play silly games, please don't think that I don't care. I do care, I care so much that sometimes it overwhelms me and I can't speak… I just find it difficult to find the words to tell you… whatever I say sounds… trite almost…" He stroked her face, gentle now.

"Oh, my love," said Fran, "I would know even if you never said it. I'd know in the way you smile at me, in the way your arm rests on me as I go to sleep… and yes, in the way you hide your true feelings behind those games. But it is nice to be told," she smiled at him, "and very nice indeed to be shown, even if that was rather, um, vigorous."

"I'm sorry, love… but you're alright? No panic? I'm sorry if I scared you."

"I was scared _for_ you, not _of_ you, you foolish man," she laughed. Her face became serious again, "I trust you with my life, and my body."

.

.

"How did you know I'd seen Masters?" she asked him guiltily, as they lay in bed that night.

Foyle's stomach clenched at a vision of Masters standing over Fran's body, but he forced himself to answer calmly.

"Remember what I said about suspects giving themselves away?" he asked, "Well, you did, twice. That comment about the murderer not being able to move the body because of injury, and saying he was a nasty piece of work. As soon as I saw Masters, I knew you'd seen him, if not spoken to him. I already knew you'd been to see Fred's mother."

"I'm sorry, love. He saw me quite by accident," she still was not going to tell him exactly what had happened.

"You were right about the doctor, too. He had performed some illegal abortions. Brenda had been to see him, but was too scared to go through with it. When Masters killed Fred he'd tried to blackmail the doctor into getting rid of the body. Turns out, though, Dr Anderson is getting on a bit and isn't very fit. He turned up at Masters' house but even between them they couldn't move Fred's body. He was a big, strong young man, Fred. It was the doctor who suggested the false death certificate; picked a name out of the telephone book."

"I looked out the old case notes," he told her, "Can you guess who told the police that he'd heard Fred talking of going to London? Something we know was a lie."

"Was it by any chance Norman Masters?" asked Frances.

"It was," he replied, "he was trying to move the investigation away from here."

"So how _did _Masters kill Fred?" Fran asked, "And where is his body?"

"You were correct with that too. Poison. Fred was too big for Masters to kill him any other way. You'd have made a good detective, love." He kissed her, gently, "But you're not going to do any investigating again, are you?

She shook her head.

He continued, "He's buried out in Bexhill. We were worried we might have to dig him up to prove the case, but both Masters and Dr Anderson crumbled under interrogation so Fred can rest in peace."

"Ugh," said Fran, "do you often have to dig bodies up? I never realised your job was quite so… messy."

"Ah, you see, too soft for_ real_ police work, aren't you, Sergeant Foyle? Best left to the _professionals_, don't you think?"

"Yes, Chief Superintendent," she replied in a meek voice, "I'll stick to what I'm good at and leave the investigating to you."

"I'll hold you to that," he smiled, "Now I know something you are _very_ good at, my love."

.

.

oooooOOOOOooooo

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**Author's Note:** An explanation is needed at this point for those of you who've read all the F&F stories. This was written earlier than, and is set before 'A Christmas Confrontation'. Originally that little piece referenced this event, with Frances being angry, not only at Foyle's actions, but because he'd done exactly what he'd been so furious with her for doing here. I edited it 'cos I fancied posting a Christmas story.

Did you review this story? Many thanks for letting me know what you thought, all feedback is appreciated.


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